


Inside Jokes

by Corycides



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Gone to Canada fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 17:02:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,118
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4843361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Corycides/pseuds/Corycides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes, you've been friends with someone for so long that you can forgive them anything. Even thinking you were the world's worst assassin and attempting to have you shot. Still, you have to make them work for it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inside Jokes

**Author's Note:**

> “General Monroe will see you now."

 

'When did the rot in the Republic really set in, Senator Baker?'

Jeremy sat back in his chair and sipped his coffee. He knew he looked like he was thinking - he had practiced the move in the mirror - but mostly he was wondering sourly whose bright idea it had been to prioritise reestablishing centres for higher education. Might have been him.

The woman waited, pen poised over her notepad. She was writing a history of the Blackout for her thesis, and apparently an interview with the great Jeremy Baker (that was not how she was going to refer to him in the text, although he had suggested it) was essential to flesh out the chapter on the Republic. Jeremy had made the process as unappealing as possible, but when even a cart ride through the snow to his Montreal adjacent house wasn't enough to put her off...he'd given up.

The woman shifted in her chair, glancing around at the door. That reaction usually meant he'd slipped out of 'thoughtful pedant' and into 'might have had a stroke'. Since pretending to have had a stroke and waiting for her to leave was 'abusive' and 'childish' according to his clerk, he supposed he had to come up with an answer.

'General Monroe will see you now,' he said, in his best pompous asshole voice.

After all this time of hovering her pen pointedly above her notepad, the woman didn't even bother to write that down. She just looked worried, in that pinch lipped way people got around the old...ish.

'Sir? Senator Baker? General Monroe isn't here, we're in-'

'I'm not that old,' Jeremy protested grumpily. Before the Blackout 60...ish was when life began, according to all the ads he'd watched of old people skiing with their teeth in. Now people hovered around him like he was going to keep over at any moment and they wanted to pick his corpse's pocket. 'When the Republic started we were just a bunch of people who banded together to try and avoid getting rape-murdered and skinned for tent material. Then we were an army, and some bastard waited until I was asleep and made me a captain.'

The woman did that lift the nib, pause, and scribble thing that meant she was editing him into something more appropriate. Jeremy lost a little bit more interest in the interview. If it wasn't even going to get him angry letters from Outraged in Saskatewan then what was the point? Those were the highlight of his week, irritating some sod to the point he'd spend three hours scribbling out his grievances, get them to the pony express, pay for delivery...and then Jeremy would pointedly not read them

'That was shit enough, but then all of a sudden we were a government,' he went on. 'At the start, I wanted to see Monroe I'd just stick my head in his tent and ask if he had a minute. Now I had to make an appointment with his secretary.'

The pen scribbled and scratched over the paper. 'So you think the problem was an increasing distance between the politicians and the citizens?'

Jeremy finished his coffee to the sugary dregs and set it aside. 'No, I think the problem was Monroe crawled up his own ass, found self-importance, planted a flag, and called it home.'

**********

Ask anyone and they'd say that Captain Jeremy Baker was a man ill-suited to command, responsibility, wearing shoes that didn't have Velcro fasteners. One drunk night in Baltimore, Neville had spent an hour and a half enumerating all the ways that Jeremy was a really bad soldier. He’d been draining the dregs by the end, but still.

So why the hell did people keep trying to give him uniforms?

‘I’m just another refugee,’ Jeremy protested, slouching down in the folding chair. The walls of the tent billowed and flapped, grubby canvas visibly patched here and there. His jeans had holes in the knees too, and stains around the cuffs; his boots were looted and rubbing his toes into blisters. ‘I don’t know what you want from me.’

Naomi Bélanger rubbed her hands over her face, scrubbing her fingers up into her short-cropped hair. She looked tired, strain carving lines around her mouth and thumbing dark circles under her eyes. There was more grey in her dark curls than there had been the last time Jeremy had seen her, but that been nearly a decade ago so it didn’t prove much.

‘You’re a six foot three professional asshole-’

‘Really, I do it for the love,’ Jeremy muttered. ‘You can’t make a living at it.’

Naomi paused long enough for him to finish, then went on as if he’d not opened his mouth. ‘-and your chosen pseudonym was Bruce Wayne. Plus, we did fuck once. So can we skip the ‘mistaken identity’ dance?’

They stared at each other for a second, both waiting. Jeremy had never been able to decide whether Naomi only having one eye was an advantage or not in a staring contest. She still had to blink, but the crazed blue of that ugly prosthetic she’d stuck with was off-putting.

‘Alright, fair enough,’ Jeremy sighed, pushing himself up so he was sitting more or less straight. ‘I wasn’t hiding. Not really, I didn’t expect anyone to be looking for me.’

‘Not even Monroe? He’s not a man to leave a job half done.’

Jeremy glanced down at his hands. His knuckles were scraped and swollen, bruised and scabbed. Some of it from honest labour, more from punching in faces of people who thought the latest disaster was a chance to throw their weight around. Maybe he had been expecting Monroe to find him - either to apologise or try and finish the job - and that was why he’d not done a better job of disappearing.

It didn’t really matter now. The only person who’d cared enough to look was sitting opposite him.

‘Monroe had better fish to fry than me,’ Jeremy said. ‘And then he melted, so… I wasn’t going to go around flashing my brand, but I didn’t really expect anyone to be looking for me in particular.’

‘I wasn’t.’

Well, thank God something had happened to burst his ego. The endless amounts of love and respect he’d been getting had been making it difficult to get through doors. Or, wait, no he meant the opposite of all of that.

‘Since you are here though, it solves one of my problems.’ Naomi stood up, grimacing as her back caught, and paced around the small square of carpet. ‘There are refugees flooding in from the Republic. Most of them are heading West, to the Plains and Texas, but we are getting enough to strain the local infrastructure. We need to establish camps, make sure there’s clean water, set up security. We need someone in charge.’

‘Me?’

She turned and smiled at him crookedly. ‘You fit the bill: experienced officer, familiar with camp populace, and with no other options.’

‘None?’ He waved a battered hand down the length of himself. ‘Look at me, Naomi. When you look like this, you have options.’

She looked him up and down, taking her time. When her mismatched eyes finally settled back on his face, she raised her eyebrows. ‘It’s been quite a while since you had a full meal, isn’t it, Baker?’

Jeremy pressed his hand to his heart, giving her his best injured puppy pout. ‘Ouch.’

‘You’re not dead, Baker,’ Naomi said. ‘That means you’re still a Republic soldier and not welcome on Canadian soil.’

That claim made Jeremy narrow his eyes at her. He kicked the ground with the heel of his boot, shredding the damp, old carpet. ‘This is Republic territory,’ he said. ‘Has been for eight years, that was the treaty.’

Naomi shrugged, her mouth tightening. ‘There isn’t any Republic, Jeremy,’ she said. ‘We’re taking it back. So…are you enlisting, or you walking back into hell?’

‘Vermont really ain’t that bad,’ Jeremy said. Except what the hell. What was he going to do - head to Texas? Last news out of there, Fry’d a price on Jeremy’s head that would have put a kid through pre-Blackout college. And the Plains? He’d not joined the Scouts when he was a kid for fear they’d make him go camping. He heaved a sigh and braced his hands on the arms of the chair, letting it creak as he levered himself up. ‘Fine. Sign me up, assign the horses, or whatever.’

 

He didn’t get a horse. Apparently there was some sort of special test you had to do to join the Mounties. He did have a dog, but after weeks of introducing the Jack Russel as Dief Nigel Baker and not even getting a snigger, he’d given up. The Nigel had stuck.

Nigel was napping on Jeremy’s desk when the guards escorted the neat, middle-aged woman in. She had neat grey-blonde curls, home-maker hips, and the untroubled eyes of a serial killer. Someone had given her a broken nose on the way in. Jeremy wasn’t going to shed any tears over that. The killers this particular Merry Widow had been running out of a border brothel had taken out two patrols and nearly fifteen refugees.

‘What is it?’ Jeremy asked, idly rubbing Nigel’s velvety ears. ‘You just hate poutine? Seriously, they just ponced up cheesy fries, right? Or should that be “freedom fries”?’

The woman snotted blood into her sleeve. That was lovely.

‘I’m a Patriot,’ she said. ‘The true government of the United States.’

Jeremy leaned forwards over the desk, dropping his voice sympathetically. ‘You know this is Canada, right? Kahn-ah-dah. It’s like America’s hat. You can tell because it’s like France, only with hockey? Well, around this bit.’

She glared at him. ‘I know where I am, and I know who are. Captain Jeremy Baker.’

‘Impressive. It would be more impressive if you got the rank right. I’m a major now,’ Jeremy said.

‘You’re a war criminal. Any regime that associates with you is tainted by association,’ she said. ‘Do you want to me. You will never find out what-’

‘Yeah, ok,’ Jeremy said. He nodded to one of the guards. ‘Take her out back and kill her, OK?’

The woman laughed at him. ‘You think you’re going to scare me? You have no idea of the things I’ve seen, the things I’ve done.’

‘That’s no way to talk about your clients,’ Jeremy said. The guards grabbed her elbows and lifted her up. ‘And I’m not trying to scare you, I just don’t like making a mess.’

She was laughing when they dragged her out. Jeremy didn’t know if she was just that unhinged, or if she really thought he was bluffing. Either way, she stopped shortly before the gun fired. The sound made Nigel lift his head and sneeze.

‘Don’t worry about it,’ Jeremy told him. ‘I’ve checked your eyelids for tattoos.’

Apparently reassured Nigel wiped his nose on his foot and went back to sleep. Jeremy rubbed the bridge of his nose. He still couldn’t get his brains around the ‘Patriots’. Well, he could. Power vacuum, power grab. It was the idiots who believed in them. The Patriots were just some weirdos that floated in on some nicked tall ships, and everyone was acting like they’d flashed the Congressional Birthmark of Destiny.

Still, according to reports from the south the immediate threat they presented was over. Their little red, white, and blue truck hadn’t just been fixed, it had been set on fire, pissed on, and thrown to the winds. Now they just had to tidy up the crazies. Jeremy didn’t mind the killing so much, but the paperwork was a bitch. He reached for his pen-

‘What the hell is going on?’ a familiar voice rasped outside. ‘I came to collect a prisoner with important information. Not a corpse.’

Jeremy paused, listening to the argument for a second, and then pressed the end of the pen to his forehead. Maybe it was a aural hallucination brought on by a stroke. If he just concentrated hard enough he could finish the job. Come on smell of burning toast, you can do it.

‘Sir. General...I mean, sir?’ someone spluttered outside. ‘Our orders were to-’

‘Where’s your commanding officer?’ the voice growled. That was definitely Monroe. You could tell by the faint, but distinct, smell of piss starting to rise on the wind. Jeremy poked his skull with the pen one last time - you know, one brain tumour was all he asked - and got up as the flap to the tent was thrown open.

Two guards first, then Monroe. He was dusty and grim, face tight with irritation and eyes pale and disturbingly sober. He nearly tripped over his own feet when he saw Jeremy.

‘...Jer...Baker?’ he said.

Jeremy threw Nigel at him. Well, he put Nigel on the ground and tapped his ass with his boot. ‘Kill. Go on, defend your master.’

Nigel took one look and went to lie on his bed under the desk. Jeremy rolled his eyes. ‘Dog’s useless.’

‘You’re dead,’ Monroe said.

‘Yep, that’s me.’ Jeremy said cheerfully. ‘Blackouts, cannibals, disease, nanites, nutjobs and now zombies. Canadian ones, at that. Life just keeps getting shitter. Shittier?’

One of his men shoved into the room, face set in a bullish expression. He glared at Monroe’s men, ‘Sir? Do you want me to have these men removed?’

Monroe turned on his heel and snarled, ‘This is Monroe Republic territory, you’re trespassing. The only reason this isn’t an act of war is because we’re currently collaborating on the Patriot threat. Do not test me.’ Without looking around he pointed at Jeremy. ‘You. Shut up.’

‘I hate to poop your party, General,’ Jeremy said. ‘But I’m not a militia soldier anymore, and I’m not under your command. This is also repatriated Canadian territory. They had a whole ceremony with maple syrup and a moose. Very moving. I wept a little. So, you don’t get to tell me what to do and you don’t get to THREATEN MY SOLDIERS! So wind your neck in.’

Monroe turned around and started at Jeremy with those cold, unreadable eyes. His mouth was set in that empty smile that was usually a holding pattern on the way to violence.

‘Get out,’ he said coldly. Everyone hesitated. ‘Captain Baker and I need to talk. In private.’

Jeremy nodded to his man, the soldier glaring and retreating. The two...rangers? Militia?...with Monroe took a second longer, but did as they were told. Once they were alone Jeremy remarked mildly, ‘I’m actually a Major now.’

‘Shut up,’ Monroe rasped. He crossed the shabby carpet in two long strides and grabbed the back of Jeremy’s neck, pulling his head down until their foreheads touched. ‘You’re not dead.’

‘Not for lack of you trying,’ Jeremy said, removing Monroe’s hand and giving it back to him. ‘I consider that particular conversation my resignation by the way.’

‘I was wrong, is that what you want to hear?’ Monroe asked. ‘I know that now.’

‘You should have known it then,’ Jeremy pointed out. ‘Look, whatever, bullets under the bridge. You’re here for the dead woman?’

Remembered irritation clenched Monroe’s jaw. ‘She wasn’t meant to be dead - but I don’t care. You’re here? How long have you been here?’

‘A year or so,’ Jeremy said. ‘I was up here for a couple of months before Naomi conscripted me though.’

Monroe rubbed his hand over his lower lip, absorbing that. The bastard had the gall to look injured. ‘When were you going to tell me?’

‘Oh, well, I thought give it a decent amount of time for the dust to settle and me to get established...and never,’ he said. ‘I was never going to tell you, because you tried to have me shot. And it case it wasn’t clear, that was our BFF breakup too. So, the dead woman. You still want her, or will we chuck some dirt over her before she starts to attract wild animals?’

Monroe had the brass balls to look hurt. Like Jeremy was being unreasonable. While he waited for an answer, he picked up the latest correspondence from Naomi and flicked through it.

‘I found my son,’ Monroe said, voice sharp in the silence. ‘Miles knew where he was all along.’

There was probably a lot of snarky shit that Jeremy could have come up with about that. Except it had been Jeremy and Kipling who’d had to bury Chelly and Samuel Miles Monroe, putting in the same grave because it broke their stupid hearts to separate them. Like it made a difference to the dead. Monroe had been too shattered, and Miles had….Miles had always been crap around grief.

‘I’m glad you found him,’ Jeremy said. ‘I hope you and him get-’

‘He’s gone,’ Monroe interrupted. His smile twisted over his face, and his voice went oddly breathless. ‘I backed Miles over him; kid ran out with Neville. Of all fucking people.’

It wasn’t often Jeremy was lost for something to say. If he couldn’t think of the right thing to say, there was always the worst thing to say. Right now, he had nothing.

‘Fuck sake, Bass,’ he said. ‘You can’t win for losing, can you?’

‘No luck at all if it wasn’t bad,’ Monroe said, a thread of bitter, hateful humour in his voice. After a second, Jeremy heaved a sigh and asked the inevitable question.

‘Do you want a drink?’

He supposed he didn’t really need an answer to that. Leaving Naomi’s paperwork for later, he got a bottle of Yukon Jack out of the desk and poured them both a glass.

 

‘That guy,’ Monroe said, waving his glass impatiently. ‘You know. The pretty fucker you were living with in St Louis? Whatsisname?’

There was only one chair in the room. Somehow that had ended up in Monroe’s possession, while Jeremy was sitting on his bed. Disgusted by the drunken good humour, and Monroe’s attempts to teach him to do tricks, Nigel had taken his leave a couple of hours ago.

‘Robert,’ Jeremy said. He lifted his glass to the memory. ‘Robert Quinn, ex-cop and no big fan of Miles.’

‘You were together for what? Couple of months?’

‘Year and a half,’ Jeremy said.

Monroe looked surprised for a second, then shrugged it off. ‘Him and Kipling just… Year and a half? Really?’

‘Yeah,’ Jeremy said. ‘We were gonna get married.’

Monroe’s eyebrows crawled towards his hairline and he leaned forwards to put his glass on the desk. ‘Seriously? You?’

Jeremy shrugged. ‘It didn’t work out, so yeah. Me.’

‘His loss,’ Monroe said. ‘You know, he thought me and Miles were fucking?’

‘Everyone thought you and Miles were fucking. The fucking cat thought you and Miles were fucking.’

Monroe snapped his fingers. ‘The cat! That’s who I was thinking about, not Robert. Kipling and the cat.’

For some reason, that struck Jeremy as being the funniest thing ever. He laughed until he had to lie down, so lucky enough he was sitting on the bed. His stomach hurt he laughed so hard. When he stopped he lay there and stared at the sloped ceiling until he realised that Monroe had gone quiet. He rolled his head to the side and squinted until the blurry general came back into focus. Monroe was looking at him thoughtfully. That never ended well.

‘What?’

‘How come you never put a move on me?’

Jeremy groaned and dropped his arm over his face. ‘Oh, don’t do that.’

‘What? I’m just asking.’

‘Fine. You’re a very attractive man, General Monroe. If you were even a little bit gay, I’d have mounted you in a manly fashion. Twice. Happy now?’

No answer. Jeremy lifted his elbow and peered at Monroe. ‘Fine, if it makes you happy you could take me in a manly fashion.’

‘All right,’ Monroe said, draining his glass.

Jeremy rolled his eyes. Some guys could be that weird about being assured that if they were gay, they’d still be the one sticking it in things. He dropped his arm back down, the fabric of his sleeve rough on his cheek.

‘Look, the kid can’t have gone that far-’

Rough fingers shackled Jeremy’s wrist and lifted his arm, pinning it down to the mattress behind his head. Monroe leaned over Jeremy, studying his face with an odd intensity. The heavy, warm weight of him pressed against Jeremy’s side, all muscle and wire.

‘Wha-?’

Monroe kissed him, mouth rough and whiskey hot as Jeremy sucked in a startled breath. The tense lines of his body relaxed, settling onto Jeremy. Habit - really old, rusty habit - made Jeremy reach up and bury his fingers in the unruly crop of curls. His thumb scraped a slow caress behind Monroe’s ear, making the other man growl against his lips. A hand - he presumed it was Monroe, but frankly he’d no fucking idea what was going on so for all he knew it could be the archangel Gabriel - groped him enthusiastically through his trousers. His hips thrust up into the touch, palm grinding down against his cock.

His neglected libido - despite what people might think, unless you were really into the rapey vibe, the middle of a war/natural disaster was not a great time to get laid - was giving his conscience a good kicking to try and shut it up. Frankly, after all these years Jeremy was surprised the sad old thing even had the energy to crawl out of its hole. Still, it managed to reach whatever bit of his brain was in charge of his mouth.

‘General.’ He twisted his head away, pulling his mouth free of the kiss. ‘Monroe. What’re you doing?’

Propping himself up on his elbows, Monroe smirked down at him. ‘Am I being too subtle?’ His hand squeezed Jeremy’s balls, the hot ache of pleasure nearly dislodging his better intentions.

‘Just not sure of the rules of engagement here,’ Jeremy said. ‘You’re not gay. Or particularly bi. And I’m not even a gender-swapped version of your type. This isn’t you.’

Not that any of that seemed to be discouraging Monroe from jerking Jeremy off through his trousers. Monroe shrugged and ducked down to nuzzle Jeremy’s throat, sharp teeth biting down on the pulse in his throat.

‘What’s being me got me?’ he asked, breath tickling as he worked his way down to Jerem’s collarbone. ‘My kid hates me, Miles blames me for everything that’s gone wrong in his life, even the bitch that ended the world looks down her nose at me. Only good thing that’s happened is that I apparently I suck at killing you. Maybe it’s a sign from the universe, maybe my soldiers just had really bad aim. I don’t know, but fuck it - I’m going to fuck you.’

Tilting his head back against the cot’s thin mattress, Jeremy tried to see in his conscience had anything to say. Either it was ok with this, or it had finally keeled over. Either way…what the hell.

‘Can I take that last bit back?’ he asked. ‘Stick with the whole me taking you in a manly fashion?’

Monroe snorted. ‘No.’

‘If you can’t get it up-’ Jeremy started, breaking off as Monroe shifted on top of him. His cock rubbed against Jeremy’s thigh, Monroe growling raggedly under his breath at the contact. ‘OK. Well, that’s working.’

It was a ridiculous, half-drunk decision, and tomorrow they were going to regret it. Tonight they stripped out of their uniforms in the flickering candlelight, rough hands and slightly befuddled fumbling. Jeremy’s fingers scraped over the ridges in Monroe’s back and stumbled to a halt, briefly horrified by the vicious scarring.

‘Tender?’ he asked.

Monroe rolled his shoulders back, scars sliding over his bones. ‘Dead skin. Can’t feel shit.’ He ran his hand down Jeremy’s stomach, finding the hard ridges of defined muscle. ‘Should I be jealous of Naomi? You never out got this cut to please me.’

That made Jeremy snort. ‘Try blackmailing your next Captain into running a refugee camp with miserly food drops,’ he said. ‘Soldiers get rations, but no extras until everyone in the camp is fed.’

He nudged Monroe over onto his back, legs tangling as they both fit themselves onto the narrow space, and kissed way down the broad chest to the tight, coiled muscles of his abdomen. His mouth lingered on the tender slice of skin between Monroe’s hipbones, tongue and teeth teasing.

‘You sure about this?’ he checked.

A hand shoving his head down the last inch was his answer. He laughed, the feather of his breath making Monroe’s cock twitch eagerly. Jeremy wrapped his mouth around the head, tongue delving into the slit. Sweat and pre-come filled his mouth with the taste of salt and musk. He sucked and let the wet head pop out of his mouth, licking his way down the shaft to the tight pull of Monroe’s balls. Swearing in ragged bursts, Monroe spread his thighs and lifted his hips off the bed. Jeremy cupped the sac in one hand as he sucked and licked at the tender skin under Monroe was bucking up under him.

Jeremy braced his hands on Monroe’s thighs, hands flexing against the taut muscles, and licked the rock-hard cock like a lollipop. He could feel the blood throbbing just under the velvet-fine skin, taste the eagerness in the pre-come that he caught on his tongue.

‘Enough,’ Monroe said. He hip-rolled Jeremy onto his stomach, the rough blanket rubbing distractingly against his cock, and ran his hands over Jeremy’s back. Thumbs dug into the long slopes of muscle, tracing them up to the spread of his shoulder blades. ‘So, any advice?’

Jeremy groped under the bed and dragged out his go-bag. The pot of lube was stuffed into the front pocket. It wasn’t always easy to come by these days, and after a couple of desperate tumbles with spit or gun oil - not the great idea you’d expect - he liked to be prepared.

‘Here you go,’ he said, passing it back. ‘It smells like strawberries.’

There was a pause as Monroe uncapped the jar, then probed warm, slippery fingers into Jeremy’s ass. Jeremy rocked his hips, pushing his ass back against Monroe’s fingers and digging his cock into the mattress. After a second Monroe pulled his fingers out, hands gripping Jeremy’s hips. His cock pressed against Jeremy’s ass, stretching it wide as he thrust slowly in.

The hot ache in his ass spread, heat pulling his balls up and clenching the muscles in his stomach. Once he was buried in Jeremy’s ass, Monroe sprawled out on top of him. He chewed marks over the hard line of Jeremy’s shoulder, tongue wet and eager on the bruises.

Twisting his head around, Jeremy swiped a kiss over the corner of Monroe’s mouth. His lips trailed over the other man’s jaw, through the scruff of stubble. He rocked his hips back, ass clenching around Monroe’s cock tight enough to make them both groan.

‘Fuck me,’ Jeremy said.

‘That sounded like an order,’ Monroe said, breath hot and wet on Jeremy’s throat. ‘Beg me for it.’

‘Go to hell.’

‘Probably,’ Monroe snorted. ‘Right now, beg.’

He hooked his arm around Jeremy’s throat, mouthing kisses against the nape of his neck and rocking his hips in two hard, teasing thrusts. Shadows of pleasure washed through Jeremy’s lower back, wrenching at his stomach. He clenched his jaw, stubbornly refusing to let any sound out. Monroe laughed, a short bark of sound, and nudged Jeremy’s head around for another kiss.

‘You know I like to win, Jeremy,’ he said. ‘You really think I’ll give in first?’

A hundred chess games, countless poker matches, and a few long march, hotly contested games of I-Spy provided the evidence that, no he wouldn’t.

‘Monroe, fuck me. Please?’ Jeremy dragged the ragged plea out of his chest. The arm around his throat tightened, pulling his head back. The show of control plucked a wire of pleasure that ran down  Jeremy’s spine and hooked into his balls. ‘Please?’

‘Again, only call me Bass.’

‘Bass. Fuck me.’

The smug laugh caught Jeremy on the raw, but it didn’t seem like the time to complain. Monroe thrust slowly into his ass, Jeremy bracing his elbows on the cot and pushing back against his cock. Each time the head of it bumped his prostate, pleasure coiling tight and hot in the cup of his groin.

Putting his weight on one elbow he reached down and grabbed his own dick, dragging his hand along it in counterpoint to Monroe’s thrusts. His thumb dragged up from the root, pressing down on the vein just hard enough, and then squeezed when he got to the head. The bed creaked under them as Monroe’s thrusts got harder, and he reached down and wrapped his hand over Jeremy’s.

Still the familiar calluses of his own hand jerking him off, but it was Monroe who set the pace now.

Jeremy came with a groan, chewing on his lip to keep it low. Come spilled over Monroe’s fingers, slicking the length of his softening cock. Monroe wiped it on Jeremy’s stomach as he fucked him with rough, eager strokes, the curve of his body pressed close and hot against Jeremy’s back. When he came, hot and wet in Jeremy’s ass, Bass sprawled out limply on top of him. Jeremy could feel the hard thud of his heart, his breathing controlled and steady against his shoulder.

Eventually his cock slipped out of Jeremy’s ass and he shifted off him. Jeremy went to slide off the bed, and got dragged back down. They sprawled on the cot, Monroe’s arm still hooked possessively around Jeremy’s chest.

‘Why the fuck do you call your dog Nigel?’ he asked eventually.

‘Dief Nigel Baker,’ Jeremy said. ‘Dief N...’

The fucker had to be the first person who actually laughed at that.

***************

The guards escorted the historian out, lifting her and her stack of notes onto the cart. Jeremy watched her leave the estate. He was pretty sure he’d disappointed her. Hopefully. He liked to keep expectations low.

He poured himself another coffee and sat down at the table, assiduously rearranging his paperwork so it looked like he actually done something. The stuff he didn’t want to deal with, got stuffed in a drawer. If no-one actually chased him about the stuff in a month, he’d empty the stuff and burn it.

Knuckles rapped on the door and a guard stuck her head in. ‘Sir?’

‘Yes?’

‘The General is back,’ she said. ‘He’ll see you now.’

Jeremy rolled his eyes. Some things changed, but some things never did.


End file.
